Bang
by WonderfullyStrange801
Summary: What made Brian want to bring the flare gun to school in the first place? this is a one-shot of that morning, and how he and the janitor really became close. T for language and mature themes. NOT SLASH! not at all!


Brian awoke that morning feeling like every bone in his body had seized up; it was impossible to get  
out of bed. He lifted a hand to his face, and sleepily rubbed his eyes, prolonging the inevitable. Downstairs,  
he could hear his parents speaking loudly to each other, no doubt about him. With much effort, Brian  
finally managed to raise his torso off his mattress, and swing his legs over his bed, planting his feet on  
the cold hardwood floor. His sheets gathered around his waist in a warm, welcoming clump. It was  
tempting, but he knew he had to get up before his parents got mad.

His mother had washed his clothes for that morning the night before, and placed them on hangers, lying  
across the foot of his bed. Brian sighed, but picked them up anyway, silently muttering to himself about the  
crap he had to put up with. Any other kid would be happy with their mother's babying them, but to him, it  
was just another reminder of his unfortunate life. It was sort of like an unspoken exchange between him  
and his parents; they did his laundry, fed him, provided a roof over his head, and he was the son that they could  
show off to their friends. He was the son that made them proud, even though he didn't put trophies over the  
fireplace. That wasn't their style. They absolutely loved the fact that he was the smartest kid in his grade. And  
they didn't care about the fact that Brian hated it.

When he was dressed, he crossed the length of his bedroom, and picked up his backpack off the floor. The weight  
of his text books, along with the extra credit work he had received from being in the Latin, chemistry _and _math clubs  
made his lips turn down in a frown. Had he even finished his homework? Not to mention study for the exam he  
had next Monday. Tipping his head back, Brian groaned. "Wonderful."

His parents looked up as he came down the stairs, their proud smiles making him sick to his stomach. "Brian!" his  
mother reached for his arm, giving it a tight squeeze and leading him over to the table, where his father sat. "Look  
who is in this morning's paper!"

His father held out the newspaper in his hand, urging it towards his son. "Go on, Brian. Read it."

He really didn't have to; before even taking it from his father, Brian could see his own face, smiling on the front page  
with the other three students in his school that had been enrolled in the enrichment program. _It is an honour, _the principal  
had told the group of kids, when they were handed their new school schedules and posed for a picture, _that means  
you are all gifted. _Gifted? Brian highly doubted he was gifted. Smart, maybe. But gifted? Who was to say he was? He was  
book smart. Anyone could he book smart.

To please his parents, Brian sat down at the table, and unfolded the paper in front of him, staring at the black ink without  
much interest. He studiously ignored the picture, embarrassed by his porcelain smile that he had forced for the man with the  
camera. "_Smile, kid. It'll be over before you know it."_ The other kids had no problem smiling; they were proud to be deemed  
gifted. To them, this was something they had worked towards, something that they considered an accomplishment. To Brian,  
though, this was just another achievement for his parents to brag about, and for him to try and forget about.

"Well?" he felt his mother's hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly. "Shall we cut it out and sent it to your grandmother?"

Brian grimaced. "I think she has enough newspaper clippings for a hundred scrapbooks, mom."

"Yes but this is a _very _big deal, Brian! I'll get the scissors."

He didn't watch as his mother scurried to the other side of the kitchen; his eyes remained on the damn paper, at his name  
mentioned in the second column of the article. It told of his curricular achievements, his awards and praises. As his  
mother came back and snatched away the paper, Brian swallowed, and closed his eyes, feeling the same head  
ache that caused him to go to bed early  
the night before returning.

"So," his father said, and Brian's eyes opened again. "Been thinking about universities lately?"

"No." He admitted, because honestly, he could have cared less about his future.

Mr. Johnston gave him a disapproving look. "You should be, young man. Scholarship applications have deadlines, you know."

"I'm only seventeen, dad."

"It doesn't matter." Mr. Johnston sat up straighter, adjusting the glasses that balanced on the bridge of his nose. "I was  
sixteen when I was accepted into Harvard. I've got _some _pull over there at the board of acceptance, but you're going to have  
to step it up withthese grades of yours if you want that scholarship."

Upon hearing this, Brian's jaw set, and he avoided his father's gaze, feeling his cheeks turn crimson. They didn't know yet, either of his  
parents, about his grades. Even if he were to ace every exam, he'd still only be leaving with a B average. That wasn't good enough for a  
scholarship, especially not to Harvard, like his father dreamed of him going. Maybe if he picked up some extra courses this semester… No,  
Brian decided with a dreary roll of his eyes. Impossible; he had his clubs already, and all that homework. There was no time for extra  
classes. What was he supposed to do?

He hadn't realized his father had been calling his name until Brian felt his arm being shook, and snapped out of his thoughts. "What,  
sorry? I wasn't listening." His father's face was flat, and he drew away, shaking his head as if in awe.

"Honestly, I don't know how you pay attention in class sometimes with that wondering mind of yours. Get ready for school, or else  
you'll be late."

Brian pushed his chair back from the table, feeling nauseous again. "Right."

Without looking at his father, he retreated to the living room, where he found his mother perched on the couch, her eyes narrowed into  
concentrated slitsas she focused on the task at hand. She cut the article out of the paper, and didn't look up as Brian passed behind  
her. "Grab your jacket fromdownstairs, honey. It's looking awfully chilly out."

As if on autopilot, Brian quickly made a sharp left, finding himself standing in front of the basement door. Descending down the stairs,  
he fought to regain control ofhis mind, though it seemed impossible. He couldn't focus, not with all this talk about Universities, grades, gifts…

Looking back, Brian wondered how he even found the gun. It wasn't like his father to keep them out in the open, especially not where  
Brian or his sister couldget at it. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Brian flicked on the light of the basement, illuminating  
the room and giving light to the boxes, coat racks,and other furniture that had been placed down there without much interest.

Brian walked towards a coat rack, where he could see his blue rain coat hanging from one of the pegs. While he was shrugging it onto his  
shoulders, he saw something sticking out of a box nearby. He was never one for snooping, but the object looked so much like a gun  
that his curiosity got to the best of him. Brian reached over, shoving aside a few items before snatching up the cool, metal object in his  
hand, and gasping.

It was a gun, alright. Smooth and black, with a round barrel and a curved grip that fit perfectly in Brian's palm. Even still, he felt scared, holding  
it out as far as he could infront of him. He'd seen guns in movies, sure. But real guns, ones he could touch were something else  
completely. Just as Brian lowered his hand to put it back where he'd found it, something stopped him.

"_It is an honour. That means you are all gifted."_

"_But this is a very big deal, Brian."_

_"Scholarship applications have deadlines"_

"_I don't know how you pay attention in class sometimes with that wondering mind of yours._"

The headache that had returned began to fade each second Brian held the gun. When he looked down at it again, still snug against his  
palm, he inhaled a shaky breath, and brought it to his temple, where the cool metal made his eyes close and his limbs tremble. "_Bang_." He  
whispered, and began to smile.

* * *

That day, his classes passed like a dream, or a movie he was watching, but not participating in. Brian sat like a statue in his  
desk, staring at histeachers, at his friends, atanyone who looked his way, but didn't speak. One may have thought he was angry,  
unless they saw the half-smile thatremained on his lips all day. All it took was the image of that gun, his key to ultimate peace, resting  
among his binders and gym clothes in his locker, and Brian was suddenly relaxed, as if he didn't have a care in the , he thought to  
himself, I will be free of all this pressure.

At lunch, Brian sat with his friends at their usual table at the back of the cafeteria, out of the way of the jocks, preps, burnouts… Today,  
Brian didn't mind. He ate hissandwich without comment on the quality of the meat, and spoke briefly with his friends, avoiding any sort  
of negative this was, in fact, his last day on earth, then what was the point on leaving with sour thoughts?

"What's with you today?"

Brian looked up from his sandwich, meeting his friend Charlie's confused eyes. "What?"

"You seem weird." Charlie muttered, shaking his head. "It's freaking me out, man."

A quick survey of the rest of the table, and Brian found that his other friends were staring at him as well, all with the same, puzzled  
expressionas the way to school, he'd decided that his secret would be kept exactly that; _a secret_. None of his friends were allowed  
to knowabout the gun in his locker, nor what he planned on doing with it. They would only try and stop him.

The lunch bell rang, signalling the students to get to their next class. Brian stood, gathering the remainder of his lunch into the paper bag  
his mother had packed him. He knew his friends were still watching him, but they could stare all they wanted; they weren't about to be  
told anything.

"See you guys in Latin club tonight." Brian murmured, giving each of his friends a quick nod before retreating from their table.

The hallway was already crowded, students pushing past him to get to their lockers. Today, Brian let them. He was like a balloon, floating  
along the crowd. When he reached his locker, his eye lids felt heavy, and as he lifted his hand to his lock, Brian paused, wondering if he should  
open it, just in case the gun fell out for all to see. Had he pushed it back far enough on the shelf? Was it leaning against the door, ready to topple?

"Get out of the way, dork."

Someone's shoulder crushed against Brian's, sending him spiralling into his locker, landing against the door with a heavy thud. He wasn't hurt, but  
as soon as he pulled himself to his feet again, Brian knew something had happened, just from the sound he heard deep inside his locker. It was the sound of  
metal against metal; something falling against the inside.

_Oh no…_

It was as if a cat had its tail stepped on; a sudden shriek, or a shrill scream came from the depths of the locker, and Brian, aghast, took three steps  
backwards, wondering what the _hell _had made that noise. That was when a bright, orange light erupted from the cracks between the door and his locker,  
illuminating the hall, and causing all heads to turn and watch. The smell of burning fabric and plastic made Brian's nose wrinkle.

"What is going on out here?" Principal Vernon appeared at Brian's side, his face purple and eyes narrowed.

When the brilliant orange light fell on his face, the man's angry expression fell into one of surprise. He pushed Brian back as he stepped  
forwards, peering at the locker and the light that it cast in the hall. After a moment, the principal drew back, his eyes narrowed and  
searching the faces of the hall's occupants. "Who's locker is this?"

No one spoke.

Brian cleared his throat, and feebly raised his hand. "It's, uh, mine…sir."

Principal Vernon glowered at him, placing a hand on his hip as he spoke. "Why is there a _flare gun_ going off in your locker?"

Brian couldn't speak. That was what it was? A flare gun? As the students in the hall began chortling, Principal Vernon ordered them to their  
classes, and soon itwas just him and the stunned Brian, alone with the smoking locker. A moment later, a man joined them; the janitor.  
He held in his hands a fire extinguisher, looking at the locker with a stunned expression.

"Well," he finally said, turning his face slightly to smirk at Brian. "This is a first."

Principle Vernon pointed to the locker. "You, open it."

"I don't know the combination."

"Don't you have something to pry the lock open?"

The janitor scowled. "I would have grabbed my bolt-cutters if I weren't yelled at to _only _bring an extinguisher."

As the two argued, Brian remained where he was, eyes wide on his locker. So rather than a real gun, he'd grabbed…a flare gun? Every  
single good feeling he'd had that day was replaced with the feeling of dread. There was really no escaping the pressure on him. As soon  
as he tries, it is only doubled. How was he supposed to explain a _flare gun_?

"Open your locker, young man." Principle Vernon gripped the fabric on Brian's shoulder, shoving him forwards.

The foul, burning odour was even worse close up; Brian coughed, waving his hand in front of his face. "Disgusting." Behind him, he heard  
the janitor chuckle.

"That'll be your charcoaled gym clothes and," he paused to sniff the air, "do I detect fried binders?"

Brian moaned, and reached for the lock hanging from his locker door. It was hot. He struggled to turn the dial, murmuring his combination as he did  
such. Principle Vernonsighed dramatically. "Come on, now. Hurry up. The whole bloody school will be burned to the ground before you open that."

Brian finally managed to open his lock, and stepped back again, dropping the scalding metal to the ground.

The janitor took his place, and reached out to swiftly open the locker door. The entire hallway filled with thick, black smoke. "oh Jesus!" he coughed,  
placing a handover his mouth and nose as he turned around to look with wild eyes at Brian. "What the hell went off in your locker?"

"A flare gun." Principal Vernon answered before he could.

The janitor's eyes brows raised, but he said nothing.

Once the fire inside of his locker was put out, Brian was handed what could be savaged; a few books that were far enough inside his locker, away  
from the fire, anda melted pen. Everything else was in blackened shards, collected at the bottom in a heap. Brian could see the shape of the gun, poking  
out through the debris, and narrowed his eyes angrily. He should have known; his parents would never keep a gun in the house. Leave it to them to  
have a fucking flare gun instead.

"You." Principal Vernon jabbed his finger in Brian's chest. "All-day detention, this Friday."

"Yes sir." Brian muttered mournfully. Could it get any worse?

"And you." The principal looked to the janitor, who was busy rummaging through Brian's locker. "Clean this up."

Without another word to either of them, Vernon stalked off, shaking his head at Brian's incompetence. As soon as he was gone, the  
janitor turned to Brian, andraised one eye brow. "So," he said, leaning against the other lockers and crossing his arms over his chest, "Care  
to tell me why there was aflare gun in there? You don't seem like the boater type, and they're the only people I can think of that keep those  
on-hand."

Brian sighed, shaking his head. "I don't know," he lied, "someone must have put it in there."

Eye brow still raised, the janitor leaned towards his locker again, and reached inside, pulling out the gun and shaking off the soot that covered  
it. He held it up for Brian to see. "You know, it's funny how they make these nowadays. They almost resemble a real gun. It wouldn't be hard  
for someone to mistake it as one, don'tyou think?"

"I guess so." Brian felt his

face going red.

"Now, that leads me to wonder what someone would _want _with a real gun." The janitor, who's uniform, Brian could see, had the name  
_Carl _stitched into the breast, frowned at him. "What do you think?"

Feeling defeated, Brian slid down the wall of the hallway, sitting on the floor and bringing his knees up under his chin. "Well," he said, eyes on  
his shoes, "maybe someone felt that a real gun was the only way to feel better. Maybe that person has parents at home who expect him to  
be the best at everything, and when he's not,it's like they aren't proud of him." Brian fought back a sob that had climbed up his throat, squeezing  
his eyes shut. "Maybe he was tired of all the pressure…and wanted to feel sweet release."

He felt Carl's hand on his shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. "You're a brain, huh?"

"I guess so."

"And you're starting to see your marks aren't so hot."

"yeah."

Carl sighed, sitting down beside Brian with the fire extinguisher balanced on his lap. "You know kid," he said, "I see this all the time at this  
school. Guys like you, the smart ones, always expect to stay that way. And most of them do. But sometimes, someone who started out on  
top, finds himself gradually slipping to the middle. Solet me ask you something; what's so damn wrong with the middle?"

Brian sighed. "You don't get into Harvard when you're in the middle."

"Do _you _want to go to Harvard?"

Did he? Brian opened his eyes, frowning at the other end of the hallway as he thought about that. It was all his father ever spoke about; his son,  
following his foot steps and getting a scholarship to Harvard. But did Brian _really _want to get there? Honestly, he realized…no. That was his  
father, not him.

"No." He answered after a moment. "I don't."

"But let me guess," Carl snorted, "your parents want you to."

"Yeah."

Carl sighed. "Well kid, maybe it's time you stop listening to what your parents want. It's your future, right? Since when do they get to choose  
whatyou do? That's not 're not the ones getting the marks here. _You _are. So what if you aren't the best at everything." He shrugged his  
shoulders."You shouldn't be, anyway. That's where the pressure comes in; you have to keep the title, and that sounds fucking tiring."

Brian laughed without humour. "Tell my parents that. If I'm not the best, I might as well be the worst."

"That's not fair."

"I know." Brian swallowed, and looked at him. "And this morning, I got fed up."

Carl nodded knowingly. "So that's why you grabbed the gun."

"_Flare gun." _Brian corrected him. "I should have known, anyway. God…I can't believe I nearly killed myself."

As he thought back, he wondered where he would have done it. Would he have done it at school? At home? Maybe somewhere between  
schooland home? The options made his head spin, and in a moment of frustration, he'd shoved the gun into his bag. What a stupid idea, Brian  
thought, bringing a gun to school. He could have beenarrested if Vernon found a real one in his locker. All this because of fucking school work.

"Well," Carl said suddenly, standing up and stretching. "I ought to be cleaning out your locker now."

Brian stood as well, feeling sick as he had just remembered something dreadful. "My parents are going to be pissed when they find out I have a  
detention on Saturday." He could just imagine the scene; him standing in the kitchen, wringing his hands together and trying to explain to them  
what father would curse, throw off his glasses,pound his fist against the countertop, all the while refusing to look at his son. His  
mother might cry, and say something about how much of a disappointment he was. All Brian would be able to do is stand there like an idiot  
and take the humiliation they gave him. Maybe his sister could take his place as the brainy child, while he grew up to be the one  
they all despised.

"You alright?" Carl asked, peering at his pale face. "Are you going to be sick or something?"

"My parents are going to hate me." Brian whispered, grimacing.

In front of him, Carl was already standing in front of his locker, kicking aside the blackened trash that had fallen out of the bottom, spilling  
into thehallway. He looked over his shoulder at Brian, and scowled. "If they hate you over something like that, I don't think they are very  
good parents. Besides, all kids need detention at some point. It givesthem a sense of character, or at least that's what my old man told me."

"So what am I supposed to do now? Become a rebel? A burden of society? Am I supposed to just throw away everything I've worked for,  
stop being smart, and just… get detention?" Brian couldn't even imagine a life without homework; how sad was that? "I can't just stop being  
who I am, because my parents will surely hate me. But if I continue, at the rate I'm going, my parents will hate me, too." He suddenly felt  
dizzy. "This isn't looking very good for me."

Carl laughed. "You're thinking too hard about this. It's not an either/or. All you have to do is calmly tell your parents that you don't like all the  
pressure they're putting in you. I'm sure you'll see your grades go up again once they lay off. But don't expect them to stay out of your school life  
completely, because no parent can do that. But there isroom for a compromise."

The bell rang, interrupting the conversation.

Brian sighed. "I'd better go to class before I get another detention."

"Good idea. I'd better get started on your locker before…actually, on second thought I'll leave it to the night-guy."

Brian laughed, and inhaled deeply, clearing his cluttered mind. "Thank you, for everything. You don't know what you've done for me." He held  
out his hand, and Carl smiled, taking it in his own and shaking it.

"You're welcome. Now, go on. Get to class or Vernon will bite your head off."

As he was walking away, Brian stuck a hand in his pants pocket, straightening his shoulders, and smiling. Carl was right. His parents would have  
to understand that all the pressure they put on him to be great, was making him be anything but. And as long as they laid off, he could do  
great, and feel great… Yeah, Brian decided, pushing open the doors to the stairwell, that sounded reasonable enough. Now all he had to do, was  
get through detention on Saturday. And that was probably just going to be a boring, eight hour day in thelibrary. Nothing special, nothing  
memorable, and especially, nothing life changing…


End file.
